


Stuttering Hearts and Quickening Strings

by Charlennette



Series: The Purpose of Wings [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Drama, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlennette/pseuds/Charlennette
Summary: What is left when words fail and pride crumbles? - A journey in five parts.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Series: The Purpose of Wings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2181564
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Stuttering Hearts and Quickening Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello, thank you for reading my story. Please see my profile for information regarding canon compliance and a general timeline of my interconnected stories.
> 
> Sincere gratitude must be given to LTCMDR Michal Drápalík, Luq707, Astro Hawthorne and all the other great people who gave up their time to edit my story.
> 
> I own none of the rights, nor make money, nor gain fame, or anything else from Harry Potter.
> 
> Cheers.

**Sei**

A young girl in a yellow knit hat splashed merrily into a puddle, giggling mischievously as the water heaved around her rain boots the colour of sunshine. The air was cold and the sky was grey. Several days of rain had washed all the complexion from the world but the little girl with long silver hair hanging out of her cap paid no mind to the bleakness of her surroundings. Instead, she contented herself by finding easy amusement in the small delights only a child could properly enjoy.

A harsh gust of wind sent the fluffball on top of her hat bouncing and she shivered within her slate petticoat. The tiny witch raised her wool mittens to her cheeks, vigorously rubbing with them to bring warmth back into a numb face.

"Come along, sunflower, we have places to be," a beautiful, young-looking woman said in French, lowering her hand so it was in reach of a mittened grasp.

"Yes, Maman," Fleur Delacour replied dutifully, grasping her mother's warm hand tightly.

The two continued their journey down the small village street, stopping occasionally so the older woman could peer into the frosted windows of storefronts. The jaunt was not a long one, the pair eventually coming to the terminus of their search in front of a well-kept home. The tiled roof and immaculately manicured hedgerows gave the property a feeling of propriety, but the rich colours and porch swing swaying in the breeze made the home welcoming and warm.

Walking up the stone steps, they alighted upon the white wooden floorboards that made up the porch before daintily stepping on the floor mat before the red door, knocking promptly upon it three times.

The entrance opened swiftly and an extremely petite woman peered out at the newcomers. She had a narrow face and body with spectacles resting upon a sharp nose. Her hair was drawn back into a curled bob of brown and wrinkles were starting to crease the skin around her eyes and mouth. She had eyes like chocolate that were quick to assess her visitors, running up and down the Veela in turn.

A smile pulled at the woman's laugh lines as she beckoned the ladies in, "Come, come, get out of the cold, and inside where it is warm." Her hands made rapid, darting motions in her urge to usher them in.

Fleur stomped her booted feet soundly against the floor mat, dislodging what water remained, just as she'd been taught, before making her way inside. She watched as her mother stepped in and stopped so she could kiss the cheeks of the other woman in greeting.

"It's been too long, Apolline, I've not seen an inch of you since school."

"Yes, well, that tends to happen when you move to Italy, Carol," the silver-haired woman stated teasingly.

"Ha! Not all of us have a handsome man to occupy our time, you mean," Carol replied jovially, eyeing Apolline with a knowing smirk. "How is Matisse? Your letters have been most…" the woman glanced at the young girl to her side before wisely choosing to not finish her sentence.

Said girl's mother chuckled. "He is well, there are rumours of a promotion even." She tossed her silver hair over a shoulder, "Things have finally started to settle now that... _He_ is gone."

The brown-haired woman shuddered slightly, nodding her head in agreement. "It was bad here too, you know, under the installed minister. He was starting to institute muggleborn and creature registrations when news of You-Know-Who's fall came out."

Apolline shook her head, "Just in time, then." The older Veela's face brightened, however, as she continued speaking, "Dark times need not be remembered now; we are safe and there is good news to be had. I've brought my daughter, Fleur." The regal woman held out her hand so her child could grab onto it before pulling her over to stand in between the two witches. A hand lovingly came to rest upon the yellow wool hat still atop the girl's head. "I'd like her to learn an instrument, and knew immediately it should be from you."

Fleur stood straight and proud underneath the scrutinizing gaze of her mother's friend. Etiquette lessons and the inherent mirroring a child does of a respected parent naturally evening out her spine and causing a slight tilt of her chin.

"A beautiful little thing," Carol praised lightly, "but then, with her mother's looks, hardly surprising. Hold out your hands, child."

The young lady did so, pulling off her mittens and stuffing them into her petticoat's pocket before bringing them up for inspection. Deceptively strong, callused hands ran up and down the small digits and smooth palm of Fleur's hand; she struggled not to giggle at the tickling sensation.

"She will have long fingers," the woman whispered. "The piano, perhaps, would be a good fit."

"No, I want her to have an instrument with some mobility. She can't take a piano to Beauxbatons."

"Hmm, true. Very true." The lady paused thoughtfully before turning on her heel to walk down the hallway deeper into her home, bidding the two visitors follow behind her.

They entered a room with plush carpeting and large windows, painted a deep plum colour. Instruments of varying shapes and sizes rested against the wall. The shiny veneer of the instruments made of metals and woods was eye-catching and the tang of polish hung in the air. Fleur felt giddy at the sight, beginning to peruse around the room as the owner of the instruments continued to debate with her mother.

A great, powerful-looking contraption rested upon a stand near one of the wall's corners, the sheer size compelling the little girl to investigate further. It was bigger than Fleur herself and she peered as though mesmerized at wood both rich and dark.

"It is a cello," a voice said, directly behind the young girl, who turned her chin so she could make eye-contact with the speaker. "It is a wonderful instrument; a deeper sound is hard to find." There was a pause. "Do you like it?"

The young Veela regarded the large wooden instrument before her and shrugged. Its size seemed interesting but she had no understanding of what it did.

Carol smiled, before speaking, "maybe a demonstration would help make up your mind, yes?" The instrument was taken from its perch and brought over to a seat near one of the large windows. It was adjusted and the strings were lightly plucked by well-practised fingers. The sounds of each of the four strings rang out harmoniously.

The musician gestured at the Delacours to take a seat upon the chairs lining the wall opposite her. Fleur hopped up on the comfortable, straight-backed chair but quickly modelled her posture after her mother who sat primly upon the edge.

A bow was produced and with a grin at the little witch, Carol began to show just what a cello could do. She started fast and lively, drawing the attention of her guests as they were enraptured by the ever-quickening pace. The pitch fluctuated as the bow slid across the strings and suddenly with a deft slip of fingers along the fingerboard, the song morphed to a deep, poignant lullaby.

The change in music had the little girl forgoing her chair entirely, standing up subconsciously and rocking in time to the tempo on the balls of her feet. The hair on the nape of her neck stood to attention, and lightning seemed to flash inside her tummy in response to the thunder of the cello.

With a flourish, the piece was done, the bow making one last elegant cut across the strings, sending out a final exultant cry. Tiny hands clapped frantically as Fleur rolled forward to stand on her tiptoes. She felt alive and energized, the music still racing in her veins and churning in her body.

"I think we have a winner," Carol announced, her white teeth flashing in the light of the room, as she grinned at her adoring audience.

"It would appear so," Apolline acknowledged, dipping her head. "Would you be willing to take her on?"

"Of course I would," came the immediate reply. "But let me hear it from the girl herself, would you like to learn to play the cello, child?"

Fleur could feel the eyes of her mother and potential instructor upon her. She breathed, "I would l-l-l...I would l-like to play the cello, please."

She watched her mother and Carol exchange a look before her new music teacher nodded seriously at her. "Every Thursday, then. Come here with your mother, and we shall play together." Her face softened, "I look forward to getting to know you, lovely girl."

Somewhat bashful, the young Veela nonetheless bobbed her head in agreement as excitement bubbled within for her first lesson next week.

**Nove**

"G-G-Gabrielle," she ground out, her mouth feeling odd around the block of the 'G' sound.

Her mother smiled at her, "Yes, it is a pretty name, don't you think?"

Fleur nodded, the name was pleasant if a bit hard to say.

"Are you excited to be a big sister, sunflower?"

A brilliant smile lit up the young Veela's face, "I am! I can't wait to see her. Can I hold her? I can even show her what I've been l-learning to play!"

"You are getting so very good with your cello, sweetling. But, don't you want to invite some of your friends over this weekend? I haven't seen Maria for a few weeks now."

The exuberance on the little girl's face died, a troubled crease appearing along her brow. "She, uhm, she plays with Anna now." Pink lips trembled. "Because I talk funny."

Apolline's expression hardened briefly before relaxing, "You do not talk funny. Many children have lisps or trouble saying certain sounds. Remember, your cousin Estelle has difficulty pronouncing 'Th' words."

"Maman, I'm not like Estelle or other kids. I stutter." Fleur's face turned miserable, I don't even l-l…," she exhaled in frustration choosing to avoid the word 'like' entirely. "I don't even want to talk in class."

"You have a harder time than other children with 'G' and 'L', my darling, that is all. That does not mean you talk funny or that you shouldn't talk at all. You are a smart girl with good things to say, and it would be a shame if you didn't convey them."

"Do you really think so?" The little girl was distressed at how small and weak her voice seemed. Her mother's opinion mattered so much, and she felt so undeserving at that moment.

"I know it." Firm and unshakeable was the reply and Fleur felt marginally better that the reassurance was so forcibly given.

Apolline seemed to sense her relief, her aristocratic, angular face taking on a fond expression as she crouched down to see eye-to-eye with her child. "My daughter, my lovely, wonderful daughter. Do not allow the opinions of others to change who you are meant to be. The world fears those that are different, but don't allow it to define your behaviour."

"I won't, Maman, I promise."

"Good," her mother smiled tenderly, reaching out to rustle the platinum hair so similar to her own. The older Veela stood up from her crouch and clapped her hands together. "Now, will you play me something? You know how much I adore to hear you play."

Happy to show off her talents, the little girl bobbed her head in easy acceptance. She skipped over to the corner of the sitting room where her cello rested upon its stand. It was her first instrument, and she loved it dearly. She had even named it 'Vivi', and cared for her friend tenderly, dusting it off every week and using polish to clean any rosin build-up.

She pulled the instrument towards her, and nabbed the bow hanging beside it, bringing both over to the cushioned chair she enjoyed using. The chair was turned towards the largest window of the room so that natural sunlight would spill across the pages of the music books she would bring to life with her playing.

Sitting delicately on the edge of the chair, the young girl kept her back straight and chin up; a posture taught first by her proper mother and reinforced by her music instructor. She didn't bother tuning the instrument, as she had been playing just that morning. Instead, she immediately put the bow to the C string and began to play.

Her movements had smoothed out in the three years she had been practising, the initial jerkiness of her arms had faded and a surety of movement was evident now, much to her delight. She could play faster and recently learned double stops. Madam Carol had even suggested she attend a local muggle recital to showcase her burgeoning skill. It was a most exciting prospect.

The song soothed her, the instrument speaking a language devoid of uncontrollable stutters or nervous fumblings of sounds. The cello was as precise as her fingers and bow were and she had worked diligently to make them impeccable. The music eventually ended, her bow coming to rest even as the final note's pitch changed via a slide of digits along the fingerboard, causing the note to reverberate long into the afternoon air.

Proud applause filled the room and Fleur shyly smiled as she lowered her head, allowing her long hair to cover her face.

"Look up, my sweet. Take pride in what you can do; be proud of who you are."

The little girl's eyes rose with her chin, "Yes, Maman."

Her mother nodded in satisfaction, "You played spectacularly. Such beautiful music deserves a treat. What would you like to do for the rest of the day?"

"I'd like to g...like to g-go to the park please, Maman."

"That is a splendid idea; perhaps we can pick up some citron pressé while we are there, yes?"

The tiny Veela beamed, "Yes, please!" She breathed deeply and looked at her mother steadily, "I l-l-love you, Maman."

"As I love you."

**Tredici**

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" The self-recrimination blistered hotly in the dormitory while Fleur paced. She tossed off her cloak and ripped away the scarf adorning her neck, throwing them both carelessly towards her bed.

She had been so careful, teaching herself over the years to find avenues through conversations that neatly avoided the sounds most difficult for her to form. It had taken much practice but she was no stranger to that; the cello had made her accustomed to assiduity. But finally, after two years at Beauxbatons, she had slipped.

Ismay, a popular sixth-year girl on Beauxbatons' duelling team, had been dressed up for the ball being held in the squad's honour. The school had been ecstatic at the flawless record of ten wins and zero losses throughout the season and Fleur had been equally proud to have been selected to join it next year as a combatant rather than a sparring partner as she'd been the last year.

All the girls had been complimenting Ismay's new dress which had glittered alluringly in the flickering candlelight. Fleur had felt the silly compulsion to join and, to her dismay, hadn't properly thought her words through before speaking.

"The dress is really g..g.… really pretty." She had said before flushing. The girls had gone quiet and had stared at her curiously, their eyes glinting ominously.

Feeling the urge to save face, she tried again but in her frantic state, she unthinkingly blurted, "The dress, I mean. You're g-g-gorgeous," she finally bit out. Embarrassment boiled within her stomach leaving her queasy and lightheaded. The stares become physical in their oppressive focus.

She would not cry, she swore, not in front of all these people. Her jaw clenched, gritting her teeth against the heat pooling in her eyes. Just as a small hope sprouted that her error would be forgotten and the conversation would continue, a small giggle sounded behind her causing her stomach to drop. That little burst of sound caused the dam to break as hurtful laughter rang out.

Without a backward glance, she had turned on her heel and made a quick retreat to her room, where she seriously considered staying for the rest of the term. Several locking charms later found her wearing a rut in her carpet as she stomped back and forth in her room.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and a hollow ache was making itself known in the pit of her stomach. School had been hard enough already; being identified as a Veela hadn't made things easy and now the secret of her stutter coming to light would assuredly make things worse.

Pacing about the room brought her close to the wall where her cello stood. Her heart rate slowed upon its sight and slippered feet were brought to rest from their agitated journey. Her instrument was her happiest treasure and bosom friend during the long time away from her family. Itching fingers twitched in the device's direction just as the young girl acknowledged that the emotion clogging up her insides demanded release.

Fleur sighed, reaching over to grasp her instrument and bow. She lovingly took them into her hands and brought them towards the chair next to the dormitory window where she could look out over the grounds. Sitting down, she adjusted herself and the instrument into its proper place. A flick of her wand and a muttered incantation cast a silencing charm on the door.

With sure and deft movements she sounded the strings, the ribbed and rough texture catching against the pads of her slender fingers. Upon hitting the fourth string the girl paused as a slightly sour note filled the air. Dutifully, she used her nimble digits upon the fine tuners attached to the tailpiece in order to tighten the string, another pluck revealed her success as it rang melodiously and true.

After a few more minor adjustments and twisting of a peg for the 2nd string, she was satisfied. It had been far too long since she had played. The whirlwind weeks trying to eke out a place on the duelling team and her larger role within the school had been taxing. She had neglected her instrument and herself in the process.

Muttering a vow to not be so shortsighted in the future, Fleur set her bow against the strings, pulling from them a sound that had always meant melancholic to her.

She let the note reach its natural end before beginning to play in earnest. The torrent of sensation that had been squirming to get out of her was finally given a vent, the choking feeling of her throat loosening.

Fleur concentrated on the notes, pushing away all other considerations or thoughts, focusing all that she was onto the sound she could coax out of her cello. The fingertips on her left hand quickened upon the strings resting above the fingerboard, the sliding pressure causing the pitch to change as the string reverberated from the bow's passage.

Bending slightly forward, the young girl played soft and slow, her music drifting out into the night to die beneath the stars. Her fingers and bow danced against the strings meeting briefly but to separate as though wayward friends or stymied lovers.

The pace of the music changed as she cut across quicker, all the while keeping her movements intricate and precise. Eventually, the speed of her playing, the bitterness tinged with furious dejection, broke the ice frozen in her belly, drawing out what she could not show, what she dared not feel in front of people.

Unbidden, a drop of water shone crystal-like as it slithered its way down a porcelain cheek. The girl poured out into music what she could not say with her words, the notes spewing forth like gossamer, trembling and powerful in their fragility.

The wound upon her ego began to close and she felt silly for such a violent reaction to a simple mistake on her part. She would practice more, both her cello and her speech. She had been foolish to forget the words of her mother, all those years ago.

Rather than search for acceptance from those unwilling to give it, she would instead endeavour to take pride in what she could do. She did not need flimsy, brittle camaraderie capable of being snatched away or snapping completely at the smallest misstep on her part.

She could learn to be proud of herself no matter the opinions of others.

**Diciassette**

England was cold and miserable and so was Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons Triwizard Champion, for all the good that title had done her. The giant stone castle was as inhospitable as the people, and her own school's delegation had been about as supportive of 'the Veela creature' as Hogwarts had been of Harry Potter.

She missed her family, especially her sister. The short period of time she had seen them this year had been fraught with anxiety and panic. They hadn't stayed long after the second task as her mother was understandably eager to get Gabrielle safely back home.

With long strides, the lithe woman walked along the shore of the Black Lake, looking out at the water that had been the source of nightmares ever since she failed the task. Her pride had been horribly bruised the entire tournament, but that was indubitably her crowning achievement.

The whole year had been an unmitigated disaster. Even the relief of realizing that the vast majority of Hogwarts had little to no knowledge of Veela, and thus was ignorant to her nature, had been short-lived with the realization that instead, it meant she was _desired_ by them.

What had, at first, been flattering quickly became brutally unwelcome. The attention had not stayed positive for long before it became obsessive, calculating, and harsh. The pride she clung to like a shield and the distance she had put between her and her peers had only put a target of a different sort on her back. Criticism had been her bedfellow since.

Not for the first time, Fleur felt a wave of relief at having her staunch friends by her side through this truly unhappy year. Natalie and Josephine had been the few she could rely on. Josephine was a muggleborn and thus harboured little pre-existing bias towards so-called 'dark creatures' and Natalie's mother suffered, in secret, from lycanthropy. Both girls had offered what support they could through the tribulations of the year.

Deep in thought, it took her a while to realize she was not alone. A young man stood near the far shore of the Black Lake, hidden by a swaying willow tree. He had raven locks and glasses; he was slight of build but large of heart. She recognized him immediately.

Stopping silently, she regarded Harry Potter from afar. She had spoken to him, briefly, through the year, and her conduct had been a source of shame since the second task. Slowly she had come to understand more about him, as she watched with a more discerning eye.

It was telling and familiar the way he shied from groups both adoring and malicious. She read the papers that slandered him and those he cared for and had watched him selflessly save those he called competitors for no reason other than he deemed it right. She had cried when he came back clutching Cedric's body, hunched over the cooling corpse protectively while he denied anyone from getting too close. The stories of his exploits had started then, in earnest. What had been whispered rumours of past deeds became a torrential flood of information. Fleur's heart had gone out to him.

They had been in the Hospital Wing after the third task together, both recuperating from the spell damage they had undergone. The overpowered stunner the disguised Moody had hit her with had caused her to fall heavily to the ground, smashing her skull against a rock. The vines had pulled her roughly over the dirt, scraping the exposed skin of her body, leaving muddied gouges behind. But Harry was in far worse shape. She had listened quietly, with mounting horror as the healer they called Madam Pomfrey listed off his diagnosis; the injuries and suffering on display were appalling, yet he bore it just as easily and quietly as he had all year.

Late that night, she had made a decision. It had been one made almost unconsciously for she knew the importance of giving an outlet to the dark feelings that festered inside. She had slid out of her bed and crept to the curtains surrounding the Triwizard Champion; the fabric had been peeled back so her head could peek in. He had been awake, his knees drawn up to his chest and eyes glittering dangerously, hauntingly in the abyss of the night.

Softly she had sat, gently she had spoken, and brokenly he began. They talked long into the early hours of a new day; both offering pieces of themselves to the other and finding it simple to talk to a stranger who would breeze out of their life as easily as they had entered it. There was an ease to it, like whispering a secret to a rock that you fling out to sea. A calm trust inherent to a foregone conclusion.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, casting its dull red and orange light into the shaded infirmary, she had finally left his side so they could both feign fitful sleep. She had left only to lay awake as she considered how such a tortured boy on the cusp of manhood could have such a good soul. And in reflection, what the state of her own was.

The young man turned and spotted her; his face haggard and eyes made brighter by the dark circles ringing them. "Fleur," he whispered, the sound barely carrying upon the wind that blew through the willow tree.

So alike, yet so different, she thought as her heart gave an odd thump in her chest. She walked towards him to take her place by his side. No words were spoken, none were necessary; not here and not now. He didn't need her words, and she had none that would offer him solace anyways. Her presence would have to be enough, or at least she hoped it could be. Though she doubted it could. She was acutely aware of who she had allowed herself to be.

The young woman shuddered as she contemplated her actions in a new light. How she had taken to speaking poorly of those around her to mask her own fear; condescend cruelly to those she considered beneath her in order to elevate herself. A shame made stark by who stood silently next to her, whose will to overcome his personal circumstances had not made him buckle and capitulate as it had her. Where she had failed, he had survived and achieved.

She had been a frighteningly unstable mixture of pride and insecurity all her life, displaying a haughtiness only the most hollow could possess. She had been taught by her mother to be strong and proud of who she was but Fleur had instead garbed herself in a cheap imitation of the self-respect her mother had truly meant.

Her mother… how the thought of her hurt. Their relationship had become increasingly painful since the end of her third year at Beauxbatons. Jagged regret sliced her open as she remembered how her mother had cried at the thought of what Fleur was willing to give up to be 'normal.'

Now, standing on the shore, the French woman was no longer sure what normal even was nor why she was seeking it at all.

"You leave soon." The voice was husky and old. It sounded unused; it sounded sad.

"Oui," came her reply, the English feeling weird still to her mouth. A strange sense of giddiness made the words take flight from her lips without thought. She chastised herself; allowing a memory of the last time she'd spoken thoughtlessly to serve as a reminder of why she must always stay in control.

"Thank you," he started, "for that night." Further detail was unnecessary for the two were perfectly aware of what he meant. The young man turned, his eyes eerily alive compared to the dead tone of his speech.

She made a hum of agreement in her throat, twisting her neck to escape his intense gaze and the thoughts it aroused.

A silence settled over the two as waves lapped inches away from their feet. The willow swayed in the wind, its branches trailing upon the surface of the water they brushed. She felt the sudden urge to say something, the inevitable separation offering courage to say what she otherwise wouldn't.

"I'll come here tomorrow, and the day after too, if you want."

He smiled.

XXXXXXX

The last week-and-a-half of school found a black-haired boy and a silver-haired girl sitting together underneath a willow tree near the lake every day. Sometimes no conversation was had, and other days their time was spent talking of inconsequential or momentous subjects.

On the day before Beauxbatons were to leave, Fleur made a decision. A choice that had been bolstered with the oncoming finality of their strange companionship. With a conviction to not allow second-guessing of herself, she brought her cello down to the lakeside.

She waited for him upon a conjured chair and upon arriving he didn't even bat an eye before sitting near the water's edge and relinquishing his full attention to her. Aware of his scrutiny, she prepared herself to give him a proper parting gift.

The witch took a deep breath, she had rarely played for someone she knew that was not family or her instructor. Strangers at recitals were fairly simple, she was safeguarded with the assurance that she'd never see them again. But, as she raised her bow, a miscalculation suddenly reared its head. Harry was no longer such a stranger, she knew him and he, in turn, knew her. Of course, they lacked much of the trivia and minutia of each other's lives but the nature of the person had since become understood.

She was struck then, that, although she was leaving, this song would remain behind. Not with a stranger but with a friend. A friend whose perseverance through trials and adversity had created a profound impact upon her, like a comet's crater marking the moon. How he unknowingly and innocently had shown her the folly of the facade she had convinced herself was who she should be. Now she could see how flimsy her armour was, how frail her spirit.

The pause had lengthened but his eyes remained focused upon her; the green gaze as disconcertingly attentive as always. They were eyes that saw more than they should have for one so young; eyes made ancient by what they had already witnessed.

Her throat felt constricted and the nape of her neck was hot but she pressed her bow to the cello regardless and put to music what her words could not say. Words that she could not say even to herself.

Shyly at first, the sound weak and tentative, Fleur no longer wanted to be that way and so the hand clutching her bow tightened and she clenched her teeth with a furrowed brow. The next sweep of the bow was better, the notes quickly gaining confidence as she did. The deft slipping of digits along the fingerboard showing her expertise and dexterous skill. A pure pride welled within her as her playing evened out, esteem constructed by a joyous fulfilment and unpolluted by falseness or worry.

As she played, a sense of being untethered filled her and it was a gloriously frightening sensation. She played her music, heedless of the time, as songs morphed into one another fluidly and without pause. Years of discontent and misplaced conceit melted like wax to pool at her feet a feeling of lightness prompted a gasping laugh to rip from her throat as a particularly intricate melody was executed flawlessly.

This was her, who she wanted to be; who she was always meant to be. She wondered at the simplicity of it all. Marvelled as the weighty burden created from doubt and alienation were carelessly tossed aside and at that lovely, spectacular moment, Fleur Delacour blossomed.

Only when her playing finally ended did she look up at her audience. Barely noticing that her chest was heaving as she gulped air or that her forehead was slick with sweat. She paid no mind to the feathers that had sprouted along her arms, quills that once would have been humiliating or covered up quickly. Instead, she tilted her chin up and sat straight. Imperious and proper as her mother had taught her all those years ago but now free from the hubris that had poisoned it.

She awaited her listener's opinion but in that perfect moment of completeness, she knew that, whatever he did, the change that she had undergone was entirely her own and would remain unaffected by either his praise or his censure.

Blue eyes met green and with a start, Fleur became aware that she nearly didn't recognize the boy sitting in front of her. It took her a moment to realize why he seemed so different and with a crash of comprehension she placed it. He looked his age for the first time all year. A smiling, charming, adorable, Harry Potter stared up at her. His eyes were alight and dancing, and his beaming smile shedding hundreds of years from his worn face and tired posture.

Her heart gave a bizarre jerk and the witch was shocked when she felt more feathers unfurl along her skin rather than sink below it now that her song had finished.

"Thank you," the boy said bashfully, his cheeks taking on a gratifying flush. "You play beautifully."

She nodded somewhat dumbly, caught flat-footed by the peculiar rush of emotion plundering her insides.

With shaking knees that she tried to hide, the woman stood, placing her cello on the stand she had conjured next to her chair. Turning back to face her companion her pulse quickened upon realizing he had moved closer to her.

He looked unusually intent, his brow creased in concentration with a determined set to his jaw, not unlike the complexion he wore at the start of each of the three tasks. Fleur stood completely still, not even daring to draw breath as a rush of confusion clouded her mind triggered by the multitude of nameless feelings and unidentifiable responses her body was undergoing at his proximity.

Without a word, he moved his face closer to her own, and after gauging her reaction, pressed his lips against hers; the velvet pressure causing a curious pattering of her heart. Her eyes slowly closed as blood raced to the tips of her ears and painted her cheeks.

She relaxed into the pleasant feeling, moving her mouth languidly against his, coaxing him to prolong the contact. He was rough and uncertain but his movements were firm, as though he knew what he wanted but not how to go about it. With some alarm, Fleur realized she could feel her lips start to harden and yellow; her embarrassment causing the kiss to abruptly end.

Green eyes flickered from her own down to her lips. A quirk of a black eyebrow caused her pulse to spike in trepidation. The pad of a finger hesitantly reached up to trace the keratin of her mouth. She waited for the questions, for the revulsion, for what… she was unsure. Nothing came. Her nerves felt frazzled and unsteady; she could still feel the flush smouldering obnoxiously obvious across her face. His fingers continuing their gentle caress of her lips was not helping her state of mind nor the heated way he watched her.

She didn't think or prepare; for the first time in four years, Fleur's voice spilt out, "I l-l-like you." The blush was wiped from her face as her cheeks paled in horror at the slip, her eyes darting wildly to avoid looking at him.

Spiralling, she barely heard him reply, "I like you too." Firm and steady, just as he had kissed her.

The woman goggled, feeling young and foolish. Again, her mouth and brain betrayed her, "I stutter sometimes." The words were out there before she consciously formed them but instead of looking away, she met his eyes resolutely. She keenly felt the silence as he peered at her thoughtfully.

"Alright."

She glared at him, "Is zat all you 'ave to say?"

He ducked his head slightly abashed, his hand rose to scratch the back of his scalp, causing his black locks to dance merrily. "Uhm, well I guess… I tend to pronounce 'awry' oar-y, I suppose." He looked up at her somewhat timidly.

She stood rooted in place as she gawked at him. A giggle escaped before she clamped a palm over her mouth. Her mirth died quickly as she saw his face dart away. Slowly, she moved her hand so she could speak clearly.

"'Arry, I'm not mocking you, I'm sorry. I just, well, I was surprised. Eet was sweet of you...to say zat."

He scratched his head again with his eyes riveted to the ground, scuffing the point of his shoe into the dirt absently as he mumbled some approximation of understanding.

"I don't l-l-love eet 'ere." She tossed her hair back impatiently, that particular 'L' word rearing its head once again. "But I am so very glad I met you, 'Arry."

He smiled at her and this time it felt like a promise.

**Ventitré**

White snow fell all around the pavilion erected for the wedding, magically dissipating before it completed its trajectory to the ground or before reaching the milling bodies of the guests.

The mass of people were friends and family; comrades and survivors. Fleur felt safe around them but, even so, what she had long contemplated was still a worrisome endeavour. She lightly gripped her bottom lip between her teeth before letting it go with a pop.

Regardless of the nerves sizzling through her, she made her way resolutely towards the cello stand and chair that her sister had set up for her. Upon reaching her instrument, she allowed her fingers to trail the smooth wood of her longtime friend. The cello seemed to resonate with her own excited, anxious energy beneath the pads of her fingers. Reaching up, she pulled out the silver comb embedded with pearls from her hair. As her mother's heirloom left its nest, platinum tresses spilled out from their confines, the usually straight hair remaining delicately curled from its former restrictions.

Fleur carefully lowered herself onto the seat near the front of the crowd, her humming pulse loud to her ears. She drew her curtain of hair, now hanging loose and free from it's earlier elaborate imprisonment, over one shoulder.

Drawing a shaky breath, she set the cello between her legs, her left foot slightly forward, the wooden body resting lightly upon her breast. Using her knees to steady her instrument, the young bride lovingly placed the neck and scroll to the left of her head, angled ever so slightly to the right so the strings would be fully accessible to her bow.

She felt bare before the crowd, acutely aware of the way her song would invite them to see her inner self so intimately. In need of assurance, blue eyes sought green and with a half-smile she lowered her head demurely, her hair falling like spun silver against the brown wood of the instrument.

Gathering herself, the young woman began to play. The first sound was long, it's richness drawn fully from the catgut string by the sliding of her bow. She let it ring in the air for a beat before dipping forward to begin her song in earnest. The music was a wordless story, a poem with no sound, and a love that no heart could contain.

The music bled from her, dripping like ink to splatter across the floor. Her cello wrung out all that she was as though it was the woman who was the true instrument, and, in a way, she supposed she was.

Abruptly, the plot advanced and the song changed; notes became quicker and bright. Fingers smoothly slipped across the strings, swinging the pitch and the mood of her song. The bittersweet beginning became excited and adventurous before a deft sweep of her bow flung what sounded like vanity out into the air. Caprice and conceit followed shortly, floating from the strings and buoyed by the rising sea of music that undulated from her cello.

The fitful, taunting tune continued until a sharp turn of the bow introduced a new character. A character who changed the melody once more.

On and on she played; eventually her head rose so that she could seek out the two green jewels the particular score she was on had been written for. She found them watching her intently. Her cheeks were flushed and hot as she focused not on the song, but the inspiration.

Eventually, the final note was struck, its strain signalling, not an ending, but an oath of more to come; a lifetime even.

As she rose unsteadily to her feet the world came back into focus. But before the awareness of what she had done and who all it was done in front of could crash into her, a warm weight wrapped her in a tight embrace while searching, greedy lips found her own.

Breaking apart she stared at the man in front of her. His tousled midnight hair and beaming face; the way his eyes seared through her, simultaneously yielding in their adoration and possessive in their passion.

Fleur Potter took a deep breath and with all the pride she felt in the words tingling upon her lips, she spoke. "I _love_ you."

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I hope I did a serviceable job writing about the experience of those who live with a stutter and those who play the cello. I admit to having neither and so had to rely on research and testimonials. Please feel free to PM me if I used incorrect terminology or inadvertently offended you. No harm was meant, only acceptance, love, and support.
> 
> All the best,  
> Char


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